26 Hours on a Chicken Bus

My own personal journey quest began today as I needed to get from Guatemala City to Nicaragua to reunite with the guys to continue traveling. With my backpack on my back and a smile on my face, I made my way to the bus station. My smile quickly faded as I was told that my reservation was "lost" and that I would be spending the next 24+ hours on a chicken bus, instead of the luxury (greyhound style) bus I had reserved. For those that haven't experienced the Guatemalan chicken bus, that is absolutely devastating news. An overwhelming sense of dread washed over me as I wondered how I was ever going to survive the madness that was sure to come. I boarded the bus, took a quick synopsis of my surroundings, and concluded the following: I was the only white person on the bus. I was one of four females,the other three travelling with their husbands and/or small children. The only seat available was the second to last seat in the back, directly in front of everyone's luggage which included huge woven baskets of grains, fruit (already starting to smell rotten). I was ogled and whispered about as I made my way to the vacant seat,still in shock and disbelief about my horrible luck. Sitting down, I noticed that the already uncomfortable bus seat was actually broken and pitched forward, putting me in a constant lean, and forcing me to have to scooch up every few minutes. The only reason I didn't fall off the seat completely is that my knees dug into the seat in front of me, as the seat was clearly made to fit someone half of my height, or about average for this part of the world. I spent the first two hours of the trip getting accustomed to the unbelievable bumpy ride on the broken, often unpaved roads that we soon found ourselves on. Thoroughly jostled and tossed around, I had two hours of daylight to try to appreciate the surrounding landscape through the half tinted bus window. I managed to secure my own seat until the Honduras border, when the bus driver decided the bus wasn't quite full enough, and picked up two stragglers on the Honduras side. Of course one came directly to my seat and crammed himself in next to me, and I lost the freedom to move for the next several hours. As if the ride wasn't intolerable enough, the music sent it over the edge. It was constantly blaring, at times loud enough to drown out any attempt at conversation among passengers. We started with upbeat salsa music (which immediately brought on requests to dance,or sing along from other passengers, which I politely denied) moved to really cheesy American dance music sometime around midnight, followed by Christmas music in Spanish for a solid 3 hours, and then the entire sequence repeated. I knew the people seated around me were talking about me from time to time, but for the most part, it was Spanish gibberish to me, and I did my best to ignore it. I did manage to uphold my side of a conversation for awhile with the two Guatemalans, Jorge and Riccardo, who were seated in front of me. After a few minutes, I realized that this conversation (and the majority of interactions thereafter) would inevitably end in a marriage proposal or something similar. If it wasn't the outright "Be my wife?" then it was "I've always wanted to go to America, take me there" or "I have a ring for you. It is beautiful. It is for marriage" I stopped attempting conversation, instead playing the "no entiendo" card and weaseling out of further interactions. My incessant fear and unfamiliarity with everything translated into 26 hours of more or less insomnia which, in and of itself, is classified as borderline insanity. Throwing in the fact that we had to cross 3 different borders (El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua) in the middle of the night did nothing to assuage my worried mind. Each border crossing entailed everyone getting off the bus, showing ID, getting back on the bus, driving 100 feet, everyone off, all bags off, lining up with your bag as an official checked the contents, then reloading the luggage, and finally reloading all the passengers. There was typically a third stop shortly thereafter where I alone would be summoned off the bus, (after the first border crossing, I was further known as "Americana" and summoned using this name only) and would walk down the aisle with a cacophony of whistles and muttered comments (in Spanish of course) in my wake. Dread would inevitably descend on me as I was positive that I was either going to a)get my ass kicked by one or more of the border officials carrying giant shotguns or b)get left behind by the bus,stuck with only my passport and the clothes on my back in the middle of the night in a strange country. Luckily, neither of the above never happened, but the images going through my mind made it seem entirely too possible. To thwart feelings of despair and to avoid the overwhelming feeling of peril in my situation, I tried to distract myself by making light of the situation and picturing myself telling the story later and laughing about it. Somehow, this made it seem less real, like maybe,somehow,someway, this wasn't really happening. The best distraction I came up with was picturing making a Where's Waldo book of where's Gill in Central America...I pictured myself on the pages of the book - Where's Gill in the market? Where's Gill in the bank? Where's Gill on the soccer field? and Where's Gill on the chicken bus? Oh, right, she's the token white girl towering over everyone. In every picture. That short escape of the mind (and accompanying giggle) proved vital in maintaining my composure and my sanity in the 20+ hours to come. The scariest moment of the ride came shortly after the gauntlet of customs/migration stops at the El Salvador/Honduras border. We had completed the third stop and were on our way when the bus came to a screeching halt after hearing deafening CRACK CRACK CRACK noises. Firecrackers? Gunfire? Both? I wasn't sure. As the bus came to a stop, two men jumped on board with huge submachine guns slung over their shoulders and were quickly escorted off by some bus personnel. Conversation ensued in front of the bus, out of our view, as two other men stood by outside the bus door. The entire bus was dead silent, by far the quietest it had been the entire trip. No one spoke, and no one moved. Everyone sat in their seat stone faced and facing forward. Everyone, that is, except for me. I was ducked way down into my seat as soon as the strange men got on the bus, and stayed that way in fear of being singled out, yet again, as the only vanilla face on the bus. I waited it out, cursing myself for being there,and for putting myself in this situation, until finally, the bus personnel re-boarded the bus, still in silence, and the driver pulled away. The only explanation I have for the situation is that we were stopped by tranquistadors, known for causing trouble and violence at border crossings, who allow passage only after physical threats and monetary bribes are exchanged. Luckily, we made it through, but I still cursed myself again for being alone in this situation, not knowing what was going on or if I was going to make it through this night. The night continued, the sun came up, and I started to feel a common bond with the rest of the people on the bus. I still wasn't sure if I was going to make it through the ride, but I felt like I had survived through enough to earn the respect of my fellow passengers, and the scary factor of the whole ride lessened. 26+ hours and 2 buses later, I arrived in San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua, and set off to find the rest of the crew. I was physically and mentally exhausted,a bit shell-shocked, but jubilant at having finally escaped the innards of the dreaded chicken bus, alive and ready to start the next chapter of the journey quest...